Past lying, p.13
Past Lying, page 13
The Vanishing of Laurel Oliver
The book features a pair of writers, good friends. JAMIE COBAIN and ROB THOMAS. JAMIE is attractive, smart, charismatic. Has had a stupendous international career. ROB is quiet, average but talented, at the start of a good-looking career. JAMIE takes pity on him, draws him into his circle and discovers they were both serious teenage chess players. Meet once a month or so, have dinner, play chess. Then JAMIE is disgraced – he loses his reputation over a written description of the rape and torture and murder of a young woman that everyone in the publishing business recognises as his former mistress. He loses his marriage, his publisher, his readers. He’s determined to take his revenge on the world, and his ex-wife.
Then he finds out ROB is shagging his ex. Something inside him snaps.
The two men keep on meeting. Talk about the perfect murder. JAMIE says he knows how to do it. It takes two . . . ROB rubbishes the idea. Modern forensics make it impossible, etc. JAMIE is adamant it will work and what’s more, it’ll make a fantastic novel. JAMIE is writing the novel as a road map for the police to uncover ROB’s ‘crime’. The disappearance is going to be unsolved until the novel is published and someone figures it out and JAMIE does the ‘He talked about it but I never thought he’d do it’ injured innocent line.
Karen looked up, baffled. ‘I don’t understand. This doesn’t make sense. Why would Stein write about a perfect murder in terms that point the finger straight at himself? Even if he’s doing it as a frame-up, he’s putting himself in the driving seat.’
Daisy ran her hands through her hair. ‘I know. The only thing I can think of is that he was planning to come back to it and change the character details so he’d be in the clear.’
‘But if the point of all this is to take revenge by framing McEwen, how’s he going to manage that?’
Karen shrugged. ‘I don’t know. Maybe his brain was already playing tricks on him? We don’t know when this was written, after all.’
‘What? You think he was hallucinating?’
Karen shook her head. ‘Not really. When I googled the brain aneurysm, there was no suggestion of any precusors like that. I’m grasping at straws, Daisy.’
They stared glumly at each other. Then Daisy brightened. ‘But boss, just because it doesn’t make sense as a novel he was going to publish doesn’t mean it’s not a truthful account of Lara Hardie’s murder. What if we treat it like a blueprint and follow it through? It might just lead us to the answer we’re looking for.’
In Karen’s head, that made no more sense than the manuscript. But they’d come this far along the road; it might be worth trying Daisy’s suggestion. ‘We’ve got nothing to lose, I suppose. Let’s finish reading this, at least.’
JAMIE picks the girl at a book signing. Student in halls. Gives her the number of a burner phone he’s already acquired in prep. The messages will be on her laptop but it doesn’t matter! (Find a way to get the laptop into his hands.)
Borrowed chalet on the coast nearby. Drink, Roofies, smothers her. Or strangles her? Showers her, Tyvek suit. In the car boot. Back to ROB’s.
Body disposal? JAMIE has it all worked out. Rob has an inspection pit in his garage. Wrap her in sheets, cover in rockery stone and the contents of his compost heap and replace the cover. They’ll never notice it under the car.
Knocks on ROB’s door and tells him what he’s done. OMG it wasn’t a joke after all . . .
ROB can’t see a way out – his car has her DNA from when JAMIE drove her to the seaside. What’s he going to do with the body?
ROB pretends to go along with it, knows he can never sell his house if he doesn’t do something with the body. But he knows enough about forensic science to understand bodies always turn up. But moving it is phenomenally dangerous . . . Unless he finds a way to implicate JAMIE?
So he plans the double-cross . . . Not sure yet what that is but I’ll know when I get there.
All going swimmingly. ROB thinks he’s double-crossed JAMIE. Until the final killer twist.
HAHAHAHAHA
(Timelines. Where does the murder come in relation to the divorce, etc?)
Include in the text some of L’s notes and poems because only the killer would have access to what’s on her hard drive. Then it’ll show up on the copy of the IRL hard drive which will totally incriminate Rob when the cops find it in his house. In his study, slotted in between his forensic science texts.
The notes have all sorts in. Notes on a workshop on how to adapt screenwriting structures to the novel. Musings on how we struggle to write people whose politics don’t coincide with ours, we think don’t really have emotional depth, don’t feel things the same way. A couple of L’s own jejeune poems. Never made public. But there are bits of them in the novel.
(NAMES are important, need to be encoded, don’t get confused!)
Neither of them will dare sue for libel, because I have the constructed evidence that will prove ROB is the killer.
And then they will go down.
Perfection.
Karen put down the scant outline. ‘It’s completely bonkers. But I can see why Jason’s Meera was concerned. Though we’re all so bloody bored right now that we’re seeing all sorts of shapes in the shadows. It’s a pity Jake Stein didn’t share his killer twists with us, though. It’s clear these notes were earlier than the text too, because elements have changed, presumably because he thought they’d work better?’
‘I guess that’s how it works. Something occurs while you’re writing that works better. Like he says in the notes, “Not sure yet what that is but I’ll know when I get there.” ’
‘First step is to confirm who Stein played chess with. If he played chess with anybody. We think it’s Rob McEwen because of the other clues in the manuscript, but that could be a total red herring. Maybe it’s time to go and see the ex-wife.’
Daisy frowned. ‘Should we not find out who his chess opponent was beforehand?’
‘I’d prefer that. But do you know any crime writers well enough to ask? I know I don’t.’
Daisy shook her head. ‘I did once get Doug Johnstone to sign a book for a birthday present for a . . . friend, but I don’t think he’d remember me.’
‘And there’s no handy circumstances like book festivals or readings going on just now to take advantage of. So, the ex-wife it is.’
‘How do we do that in lockdown?’
Karen shrugged. ‘I think we can just rock up on her doorstep. We tell her we want to conduct a witness interview and that me and you are a bubble. We can do it indoors if she has a room big enough for us to be two metres away from her with the windows open, or we can do it outside if she’s got a garden. I don’t think it’s too cold for that today.’ Even as she spoke, she could see the bright light of excitement in Daisy’s eyes. The prospect of getting out of the flat for more than an hour’s tramp around the immediate environs was clearly appealing.
‘I’ll find out where she lives, will I?’
Karen nodded. ‘You will, Daisy. You will.’ Then she paused. ‘I’ve just had a thought. Podcasts. Some days, it feels like everybody’s got a bloody podcast. There must be some that focus on crime fiction. While you’re tracking down Rosalind Stein, I’ll check out the podcasts, see if there’s any that look like they might give us a lead. I’ll have to tread carefully, though. We don’t want crime writers with time on their hands fancying their chances as Miss Marple.’
Daisy groaned. ‘No kidding. What could possibly go wrong with that?’
13
Karen retreated to Hamish’s study to delve into the alien world of podcasts. There was one that she did dip into from time to time; she’d stumbled on it by accident while looking for a school friend on Facebook. Hosted by a guy who had been in the year above her at school, it featured road trips around Scotland that ended up in weirdly interesting places. She’d never heard of most of them – The Man in the Bath in a loch near Oban; the Devil’s Pulpit in Finnich Glen; the Garden of Cosmic Speculation – but she was familiar with others – the Chain Walk at Elie; the Electric Brae in Ayrshire; the Hermit’s Castle in Sutherland. But listening to Johnny Spinks taking her for a tour was an entertaining way to spend an occasional half an hour on her night walks.
But she hadn’t wanted to explore that universe any further. As far as she could see, there seemed to be a preponderance of true crime podcasts. The very description set her teeth on edge. Why did people think they could solve a crime better than trained detectives and forensic experts? Of course there were miscarriages of justice; Karen had worked her way through a few of those in her time. But these amateurs who thought they knew best simply muddied the waters more often than not. She reckoned the people who made the podcasts were every bit as blinkered and biased as the laziest of cops, and every bit as inclined to leave out what didn’t suit their theory.
Then there were the political podcasts. Speculation and precooked opinions, she reckoned, acknowledging her own bias and prejudices. If she wanted to hang out in an echo chamber, she could just spend more time on Twitter.
She was aware that she was an anomaly. People her own age and years younger seemed to live their lives on screens, swapping the identifiable details of their lives on Twitter and WhatsApp and TikTok and Instagram. At least, she thought that’s what it was right now. Next year, there would doubtless be another cool place in cyberspace to hang out.
But none of that stuff ever went away, not really. And Karen knew only too well from what she’d seen and heard at work that the toxicity of trolls spilled over into the real world all too often. Her problem was that she was a visible cop. Not good in a world where some of the people they were supposed to serve and protect didn’t see those things the same way. As a woman, she’d always been the easiest to clock in any team she’d been part of. She had no intention of making herself more visible to the crazies. She’d given Daisy the lecture, but Daisy had given her the ‘I know why we call you KP Nuts,’ look and carried on as before. God knows who she was talking to on whatever ‘swipe right, swipe left’ dating app she was into. At least lockdown made her safer, Karen thought. She wasn’t meeting up with anyone IRL, as they called it.
Sighing, she set off to explore further. There seemed to be podcasts about everything from the menopause to 1960s football, with everything in between. She actually found one for dogs to listen to. Even if you liked this stuff, how did you ever find anything? She tried searching for ‘crime fiction’ and was swamped with suggestions, none of which was really what she was looking for. But Karen never gave up and she kept on worming her way down the rabbit hole. Eventually she found what she thought she was looking for. Black Thistles promised in-depth interviews with Scottish crime writers, ‘Complete with all the jaggy bits.’
Karen looked at a list of episodes reaching back more than two years. Sometimes there were two a month, sometimes only one. It was presented by two men, one from Glasgow, the other from Kirriemuir. They claimed to cover ‘the gamut of the genre, from granny-pleasers to gruesome gothic’. She thought its faux jollity threatened to take all the joy out of murder mysteries. But looking down their list of past guests, she spotted a clutch of writers whose books she’d enjoyed enough to buy more than one. And then, to her delight, she found Jake Stein. Two years ago, before the sky had fallen in on him. Scrolling down the page, she found a Twitter handle and an email address.
Hastily, Karen knocked out an email.
Hi, guys. I’m DCI Karen Pirie with Police Scotland. I’ve got a quick query for you about a Scottish crime writer who’s actually been on your podcast. Obviously, this isn’t for public consumption, but I’d appreciate five minutes of your time. We can do a WhatsApp call, if that works for you.
She added her number, then clicked on the Stein interview.
It was illuminating, in the sense that she could detect a depressing congruence between Jamie Cobain and his creator. Jake Stein had cultivated an air of hail-fellow-well-met camaraderie, but to a practised listener like Karen, the reality that lay beneath peeped out often enough for her to form a different impression. He had false modesty down to a fine art, but she reckoned it hid a pomposity that would be easily pricked and an insecurity that would readily turn to resentment. She’d have enjoyed facing him across an interview room table. It would have been a challenge to see how quickly she could puncture that highly polished ego.
She’d almost come to the end of the podcast with no mention of chess when her phone buzzed with a WhatsApp call. ‘Karen,’ a breezy voice greeted her. She recognised it immediately as the podcast co-host from Kirriemuir. ‘This is Chesney here, from Black Thistles. I must say, we are honoured to be the podcast of choice for Scotland’s top cold case cop.’
Karen chuckled. ‘More like the podcast of last resort, Chesney. But I must admit, you do a very professional job. Nothing like the intensity of a real interrogation—’
‘But then there’s generally a wee bit more at stake when you’ve got somebody in the hot seat, Karen. All we’re doing is feeding the reading machine. So, what’s this burning question that’s driven you into our arms?’
Bumptious as he was, it was hard to dislike his bounce. ‘You’ll understand that I can’t give you any details about my reasons for asking what I’m about to put to you?’
He groaned. ‘Aw, don’t give me that “jeopardising an ongoing investigation” malarkey, Karen. We’re in the middle of lockdown and you’re a celebrity cold case cracker. How ongoing can it be?’
‘I’m not a celebrity, sir. I’m a detective who deals with some of the most upsetting cases that Police Scotland investigates. And I don’t work cold cases, I work historic cases. Because unsolved serious crimes are never cold in our eyes. So can you maybe dial down the flippancy a bit?’
‘OK, OK. Sorry. I’m not used to dealing with people like yourself, who do this for real. Facetiousness is always my fallback. Can we start this again? You want to ask me a question but you can’t tell me what it’s about?’
‘That’s about the size of it. And the other thing is that I would very much appreciate it if this conversation went no further. If crime writers are anything like the polis, there’s nothing you like more than a good gossip.’
He gave a roar of laughter. ‘You nailed it there. The public think when we get together we talk about how to kill people and get rid of bodies. They couldn’t be further from the truth. We’re like a bunch of old grannies in the steamie. Nobody’s rep is safe with us. We relish tales of disgrace and disaster. Authors being dumped by their publishers, publicists ratting out prima donna writers, true stories of whose books are really put together by their editors. And that’s before we get on to the shagging.’
‘I’m afraid you’ll be very disappointed with my question. I’d put it at zero gossip value.’ Karen tried to sound rueful to disguise how tedious she found cheery Chesney.
‘Fire away, then.’
‘Jake Stein had a regular chess opponent. Do you know who it was?’
A moment of stunned silence. ‘That’s it? You just want to know who he played chess with?’
‘That’s it. You could say I’ve got a bit of a chess problem he might be able to help me with.’
‘If I’d tried to guess what you wanted to know, we’d still have been here at the next Bloody Scotland,’ he scoffed. ‘If there ever is another festival anywhere, thanks to this bloody COVID. Jake Stein used to play chess with Ross McEwen. You know who I mean?’
It fit. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. ‘I know the name, yes.’
‘Rising star,’ Chesney said. ‘It was weird – like their careers were mirror images of each other. Jake kind of took Ross under his wing when his first book took off. So it would look like he’d been his big supporter before the rest of the world caught up. Of course, it wasn’t like that at all – Jake just heard the bandwagon approaching and leapt aboard early enough to look as if he’d been there all along. He’s not the only one who does that, by the way – he was just a bit better at it than most. And then Jake got the legs cut from under him when he did that atrocious thing to lovely Marga Durham.’
‘And is she? Lovely, I mean?’
‘Honest to God, you couldn’t meet a nicer lassie. Genuinely kind. Goes out of her way for folk. No way did she deserve that, even if she did bin him. But oh boy, did he pay the price. His career flushed down the toilet while Ross just kept getting bigger and bigger. He’s another good guy too.’ He ground to a halt.
‘So Ross McEwen and Jake Stein played chess together?’
Another snort of laughter. ‘I wouldn’t say they played “together”. More like “against each other”. It was definitely a serious business. It’s about the only thing Stein managed to hang on to from his old life. He basically got the frozen shoulder from everybody else.’
Karen was surprised. She hadn’t thought this was a world where a little light adultery would get a man thrown out of the club. She said as much.
Suddenly serious, he responded with a sober answer. ‘ “He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled,” ’ he said. ‘Guilt by association. Nobody in a relationship would want to explain to their other halves why it was still OK to hang out with a scumbag like Jake turned out to be. And if you were looking to find yourself a relationship, it’d be pretty hard to explain why he was one of your mates. None of the women wanted anything to do with him. Not even the groupies. I know they say everybody loves a bad boy, but you’d have to be terminally stupid to want to hook up with someone who might do to you what he did to Marga. And for all his faults, Jake wasn’t interested in the terminally stupid.’
‘So, Ross McEwen was his last remaining friend?’
